Chelsea parked her car and rushed toward the Convention Center entrance. The team was supposed to meet-up at 10:00 and she was late. She jogged across the giant parking lot in her stacked heeled oxfords, more than a little self-conscious as her short skirt flew up and her boobs bounced with every step. She found her crew at the appointed spot.
They could see her coming from way down the hall and waved with excitement. As she got close, Ahmed, Dave, and Jackson broke out in shit-eating grins. Sheila, ever the socially awkward emo, didn’t bother to say “Hello” but instead began with, “Chelsea, what the fuck are you wearing?”
“What do you mean? I’m Hermione,” Chelsea protested.
“Um… Hermione the stripper, maybe,” Sheila said as the boys burst out laughing.
Chelsea was embarrassed. She didn’t want to do this stupid Comic-Con thing in the first place. The Team – a bunch of nerdy programmers who never crawled out to see the light of day – had convinced her it would be good for morale. As project manager, it was Chelsea’s job to keep the team happy and productive and so she supported it and foot the bill for tickets, even though it was not at all her kind of thing.
At some point, they’d decided to go as Harry Potter characters. Sheila was Snape, Ahmed was Dumbledore, Dave was Voldemort and Jackson was Harry himself. Chelsea had seen the first Harry Potter movie a long time ago and barely even knew who all the characters were. But anything for the Team.
“You look like a thick Emma Watson just the way you are,” Sheila had said, “You are an automatic Hermione.” Accordingly, Chelsea ordered a Hermione costume several weeks prior to the event. She’d waited until that very morning, however, to try it on.
“Um, I think you bought ‘Sexy Hermione’,” Dave said, unhelpfully, his tongue on the ground.
Chelsea realized that this is exactly what she had done. Where the actual character had a long black skirt and robe, Chelsea sported a black pleated mini-skirt, knee socks, and a robe that was more like a short cape. And where the fictitious Hermione had a blouse complete with tie and high V-neck sweater, the very real Chelsea had a tight blouse that did not button, layered under an even tighter sweater vest, which combined to deliver her tits onto a fantastical shelf for all the other wizards to share. The long brown curly hair… Well, that was the same. In fact, it was her own.
“Look, it’s not like you’re the only one. There are more than a few other tarts here today, just look around,” Ahmed said, trying to reassure Chelsea, though it was hard to take him seriously given that he was speaking in a fake British accent.
“Yeah, um, thanks, Dumbledore,” Chelsea said, rolling her eyes in sarcasm, “I feel loads better.”
“What the fuck, Chels’? Just make the best of it. We’re finally out of the office. Don’t mess with our vibe,” Sheila chided. Chelsea agreed she would press on as the guys wagged their heads vigorously and wantonly in encouragement.
They wandered the vast space as a group, trying out video games, bagging some free merch’, getting autographs, watching presentations from people Chelsea had never heard of, and in general checking out the scene. Chelsea had never seen so many horny nerds together in one place before. She got more than her share of desirous looks, given that her outfit choice seemed to imply that was exactly what she was looking for.
Since the Team was into all things JK Rowling, the team spent a good share of their time in the Harry Potter venue. In a sea of nearly identical characters, Chelsea -- and her tits and thighs -- stood out. There were a couple of especially testosterone-infused boys – one a Harry and the other a Draco Malfoy – that couldn’t seem to take their eyes off her.
She gave them a fuck off stare, but her protruding tits sent a contrary message, and they continued to follow her around, whispering and giggling more like schoolgirls than schoolboys. If they weren’t apparently a couple of hot running teenagers, she would have found it creepy or even frightening. Instead, she just found it childish and rude.
They wandered over to the Avengers area, and Chelsea was ever so slightly comforted that the “slut” costume quotient was higher among this crowd, even with some of the men. Their Potter gang was the exception amidst all the Iron Men, Thors, Black Widows, and such, until, who should Chelsea spy again but the horndog Harry and Draco duo. Had they followed her in there? As she dreaded, they eventually approached her and complimented her on her outfit.
Chelsea took the two in briefly, surmising from the smooth skin on their faces that they probably hadn’t even had their first shave. “Yeah, thanks, boys. Enjoy beating off, later. I hope you have a good time,” she told them. She said it with a smile. They were just kids, so she chose to put them in their place without being a complete shrew about it.
After a couple hours, she bought the Team lunch and then made an excuse to get the heck out of there.
She headed toward her car, miffed at how she’d killed most of a rare day off doing something she didn’t want to do and along the way had managed to embarrass herself in front of her team. This debacle would take a while to live down.
It was only 2:30 in the afternoon, but when she saw a bar on the fringe of the Convention Center, she decided a stiff drink was in order. She wrapped the miniature robe as tightly around her as it would go and went in to grab a cold martini. The place was packed but the hostess gave her a wink, either because she took pity on Chelsea’s outfit or because she thought a Hermione tart would attract even more customers.
For whatever reason, the hostess found Chelsea a rare seat at the window bar. She could sit there and watch the nut jobs on the sidewalk, avoid eye contact, and sip her drink in relative peace. A Spiderman, and soon after, a pudgy Superman, asked if she wanted company. Each time she gave them the “I’m waiting for my friend” blow-off line and they withered easily. Chelsea was just beginning to relax when she was tapped on the shoulder, yet again.
She turned with irritation to see the two horn-dog teenagers standing there with broad smiles. She realized the time for any mixed signals or politeness was over.
“So how did you boys manage to get in here? You must have some pretty awesome fake IDs. I should out you to the hostess,” she said sternly. Before they could respond, she added, “But you know what, I’ll make you a deal: I’ll mind my own business if you mind yours. I’m waiting for my boyfriend and I don’t need him coming in here to find a couple of hot and bothered teenage boys breathing on me. So, why don’t you find someone else too old for you and leave me alone?”
Draco looked at Harry and laughed out loud.
“No, you’re not,” Draco said, looking at Chelsea, his steely blue eyes peering through the bangs of his short blonde wig.
“No, I’m not, what?” Chelsea asked, now thoroughly pissed-off. She stared back at Draco with as much ‘get the fuck away from me energy’ as she could muster. He stared back, unblinking. Chelsea took in his face amidst their little stand-off. His features were as fine as any male model’s and his lips were remarkably full. Go after someone your own age, Chelsea thought to herself. Surely some nerdy sixteen-year-old girl wants to hit that.
Finally, Draco spoke. “You’re not waiting for your boyfriend. You’re alone. And I think you could use a little company. You haven’t looked happy for at least a couple hours.” Chelsea wasn’t sure how to counter that. After all, he was right.
“And, not sure how to break it to you,” Harry piped in. The pitch of his voice made Chelsea wonder if he was even fifteen. “But we’re not teenage boys. I’m twenty-four and my friend here is twenty-one. Hell, we’re not even boys.”
Chelsea processed this slowly as she took in Harry. His wig was pretty awful. It didn’t seem to fit him at all, like he had a man bun or something underneath it. Like Draco, he was rather short, and he seemed a little plump, or at least barrel-chested. He had pale blue eyes, and a delicate freckled nose hid behind his horned rimmed Harry Potter glasses. Chelsea’s face betrayed that she was not exactly following.
“Hmmm. Let me put it this way,” Harry continued. “I’m probably as excited to get home and take off this outfit as you are.” Chelsea gave him a disgusted smirk. But Harry quickly added, “This ace bandage around my chest is absolutely killing my tits.”
His… Er, her… Words spun in Chelsea’s head for a half-second as she took a large sip of her drink. Which, once those words sank home, she promptly spat all over the bar.
“Whoops,” Draco said, “I do love a good spit-take. Let’s get you another one of those,” and ‘he’ waved over a server.
Her guard now down, Chelsea accepted their offer. In fact, she accepted their offer three more times. She learned that ‘Draco’ was, in fact, Linda. And that ‘Harry’ was actually, Janet. They proved to be interesting to talk to and quite funny, and somehow, in their boy outfits, confusingly alluring. After three and a half cocktails, and nothing but a little calamari and breadsticks to soak it up, they were all pretty wasted.
“Hey, we live in an apartment just a few blocks from here,” Linda offered, “You want to come back to our place, get some coffee and sober up before you drive home?”
Chelsea accepted. As the trio walked arm in arm, Chelsea half wondered if maybe Linda and Janet were a couple, but she was having enough fun, and had enough booze in her, that she didn’t overthink it. Their place was a small efficiency on the third floor of an older building. They’d done a nice job with the art and furnishings and the place had good light. It also had only one bed, confirming Chelsea’s suspicion that they were a pair. Chelsea was no prude. She had lesbian friends. She’d even kissed a girl a time or two.
Chelsea sat on a small love seat. Other than dining chairs and the queen-sized bed it was her only option.
“Yeah, sooo… Turns out we’re out of coffee,” Linda, still in her Draco outfit, declared. “We do have Red Bull.”
“Ick,” was Chelsea’s involuntary response.
“Yep, I don’t disagree. But if you mix it with vodka it’s almost palatable,” Linda laughed. Chelsea laughed along, and with a resigned wave of her hand indicated she was okay with the disgusting cocktail.
Meanwhile, Janet was peeling off her Harry costume with a dancer’s embellishment. She whipped off her wig and shook out a mane of wavy shoulder-length red hair. Without inhibition, she dropped her black slacks, revealing a cute pair of black boy shorts, and then tore at her sweater, shirt, and tie until she was down to three or four winds of beige Ace bandage around her chest. By this time, Chelsea had a tumbler of pink liquid in her hand, which she sipped as she enjoyed the show.
“Oh, my fucking god, get this off of me!” Janet exclaimed with melodramatic urgency. Linda unsecured the exposed tag end of the bandage and pulled while Janet spun like a ballerina until her cute set of bouncy c-cup tits sprang free. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to air these things out for a bit,” Janet said as she groped her own boobs as if encouraging blood to return to them. Now just in striped knee socks and tiny boy shorts she strode toward Linda in their small kitchen. “You got one of those for me?” she asked. Linda handed Janet her own Red Bull potion before grabbing some clothes and heading into the bathroom.
“She’s the shy one,” Janet said with a smile to Chelsea as she took a swig of her drink. That Janet showed no signs of putting on any clothes peaked a bit of nervousness in Chelsea, but that eased with every sip of her Kool-Aid-from-hell beverage. Linda emerged in blue jean cut-offs and a plain white T-shirt.
“Oh, man, that does feel better,” she said in her smoky voice. Linda was barefoot and Chelsea found herself admiring the muscled tone and smooth tan skin of her long legs, the way her bubble-butt filled out her shorts, and the shape of her small firm tits and nips under her tight shirt. It was the body of a runner and a contrast to her own, fuller shape, and she was somewhat envious. Chelsea also realized that the Draco blonde wig was not a wig at all. The stylish blonde boy cut was Linda’s own hair.
